“I was thinking,” Danny said, “just now, when you were trying to muzzle me. I thought, why is this man trying to muzzle me? Then it hit me, right between the eyes. Cirencester. It’s not you that’s trying to muzzle me, it’s the whole bloody lot of you. The Group.”
“What possible connection is there between a select private literary society and you not making very silly documentaries?”
“I like that,” Danny said. “Select private literary society. On that scale of values, the Third Reich was a bowls club. I know what you lot get up to in that neo-Georgian manor house on the Tetbury road.”
It must be pointed out at this juncture that Danny hadn’t the faintest idea what went on there, although this was not for want of very strenuous trying. But the silence at the other end of the wire made it obvious that he had hit on something here. The effect of his previous threat had been pleasant, but this was incomparably better.
“What was it you said you wanted?” asked the-voice.
“A helicopter.”
“Any particular make?”
Danny was taken aback. “How do you mean?” he asked.
“Gazelle? Lynx? Sea King? I believe Sea Kings are very comfortable.”
“That sounds fine,” said Danny. “So I can hire one then, can I?”
“Wouldn’t hear of it,” said the voice. “I’ll order you one myself. Much quicker that way.”
“Oh.” Danny frowned with surprise. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all,” said the voice, “no trouble whatsoever. What’s the use of having a desk with six phones if you never use them? Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“Wherever suits you,” Danny said, not to be outdone. “I don’t know where the nearest airfield is, but…”
“Airfields!” said the voice, forcefully, “who needs them? Go down to the beach and I’ll get someone to pick you up there. Give me half an hour.”
The line went dead. Danny pocketed his remaining change and went to the bar for a drink, just as the towels went back over the pump-handles.
♦
Cornelius and Sebastian rowed Jane ashore in the skiff. They had to land her at a rather remote spot for fear of making themselves conspicuous, and the walk to the road over rocky, and troublesome country was not to Jane’s liking, since she was feeling tired enough already. She had packed quite a lot into this one day already without gratuitous exercise.
It was all very well saying she would find Montalban, as if all she had to do was look him up in Thompson’s Local under Alchemists. It was all very well saying that once she had found him she would pass on Vanderdecker’s message. The reality might be somewhat trickier. And was he back from Geneva yet?
As she finally joined the road, she was nearly blown off it by the downblast of the blades of an enormous helicopter that roared by apparently only inches over her head. She said something very unladylike to it as it went past, but it was very unlikely that it heard her, what with the noise of the rotor blades and all. Probably just as well.
After a long walk she reached West Bay, unlocked her car and took her shoes off. Then she wrote down Vanderdecker’s message on the back of an envelope, just to make sure she didn’t forget it. Montalban. Who did she know who might know where to find him?
Oddly enough, it was just conceivable that Peter might know. There was not a lot, when all was said and done, that Peter did know. He wasn’t particularly well up in female psychology, that was certain, and she had her doubts if he had a firm grasp of the basics of tying his own shoelaces, but he was a scientist. Scientist. He lived in a little white box in north central Oxford and did research into semiconductors, whatever they were. All she knew about them was that they had nothing to do with buses or orchestras.
That seemed to be a likely place to start off her enquiries, then. All she needed to do now—was to locate his telephone number. This should be marginally easier than finding the source of the Nile, always supposing that she had remembered to bring her address book.
She found a telephone box and tried Directory Enquiries instead. Then she called Peter’s number, which was engaged. Enough of this, she said to herself. Food.
By far the best way to get something to eat in West Bay is to go to Bridport, where they will gladly sell you a sandwich if you show them enough respect. Jane discovered this eventually, and over her sandwich and a cup of pale brown oil in the Cherry Tree café she considered her next move. Phone Peter, get Montalban’s co-ordinates, go there, see him, deliver the message, be back home in time for the afternoon repeat of “Neighbours”. It could be that simple. On the other hand, it might be a lot harder, and it would be wise to give some thought to possible complications. But Jane’s mind was starting to wander, and she found herself thinking about something quite other.
